Disclaimer: These are not my views on London, lol - just trying to get into Booth's head. :)
God, I hope I can make it there one day! xD
He hates it here.
The weather is ugly, the air is damp. Upon his arrival, he can already feel the ache in his skull brought on by the pressure shift.
Though impressive and accomplished, the Yard lacks a certain quality that leaves him yearning for Home. And though he is not a timid man by any means, public speaking has never been his calling. He's nervous and distracted.
She's speaking at Oxford. He meets her there after - the University bores him into a stupor that has her berating him relentlessly. What's the big deal with this place, anyway?
He really can't stand it here.
Transitory relief makes him positively glow. They'll be going home soon, and he's ready to make a mad dash for the airport. But the feeling is short-lived. A young girl has been murdered. She is American and better yet, an heiress. The impending orders are dreaded, but inevitable.
Booth and Bones are on the case.
The light at the end of the tunnel had, in point of fact, been a train. His torment has just begun.
Thank God for small victories. He permits a brief smile as he signs off on their new rental. His faithful comrade openly disagrees with his choice of transportation, just as she had in LA.
An Aston Martin is not FBI appropriate. He enthusiastically opposes her observation.
The Austin Mini waiting loyally for them outdoors seems to mock him just as loudly as his partner.
He can barely fit within the dwarf car. His skull is pressed against the roof. Bones is yammering in his ear. The street signs confuse him, the wheel is on the wrong side. Not to mention the flow of traffic. It begins to rain.
He hates this place.
He really does.
The Bureau has only allowed him enough per diem for the previous three days. This case is a favor - practically pro bono - that he has still been advised (ordered) to take. He can't afford the rent here. She allows him residence in her hotel room. He takes the pull-out divan that is bigger than his bed back home.
She complains about his stuff on the floor. He complains about her hogging the bathroom in the morning.
Breakfast is war. She wants a traditional English breakfast - for the full effect. He wants pancakes, dammit.
Room Service wants this case to be over with, too.
He can't find a decent cup of coffee anywhere in this country.
Much to his great surprise - and embarrassment - doubledecker buses make him claustrophobic. The behemoth of a tourist taxi has to pull off the street, and Bones is guiding him through breathing exercises on the shoulder.
This place is giving him new phobias. He cusses and continues to breathe into the old lunch bag.
Really, really, doesn't like it…
He misses the diner. Everywhere here is a pub. She admonishes him for thinking so stereotypically. After lunch, they're lost. Ignoring her, he's very confident in his abilities to get them un-lost in a manner of minutes.
An hour later, he knows all there is to know about the Piccadilly Circus, Tower Bridge, and various other useless fun-factoids that his comrade thought vital information.
Bones loves it here. Booth growls.
Out of the grace of God, they have a suspect. They're chasing him through the city itself – anywhere from back alleys, to shopping centres, right through the middle of downtown. The perp escapes - naturally, in this spiteful country. Luckily, there are witnesses.
And yet, the furry-headed guards say nothing.
Booth is now ready to throw a bitch fit.
The hate-factor is climbing.
Honestly, he can never understand what these people are saying. God help him, he misses the squints.
Just before the British mirror-image of themselves becomes too creepy for comfort, the case is solved. They'll go home tomorrow.
Booth is so happy he considers a cartwheel or two. He hesitates though when the possibility of breaking a bone arises and threatens to stay him longer still in this suffocating country.
The headache is getting worse. He's too tired to care about how much he despises his surroundings. He still hasn't adjusted to the time difference. Insult to indecorous injury, Bones wakes him up the next morning at 5am. Her logic explains that this way, when they get back home, they'll be ready for some quick Thai before bed.
He isn't certain he's fully awoken yet, but follows her nonetheless like an obedient child, whimpering along the way.
By some divine intervention – or perhaps it is just Bones herself – she finds him a cup of coffee that he can tolerate. Through dark circles and five o'clock shadow, he sends her a weary thank you.
Bones announces her craving for one last look at the place before their departure and steers him towards a deserted tourist spot. Though, the lack of commotion is no shocker given the godawful time.
She locates them both to a bench and he finds himself sitting uncomfortably on the hard grating, getting sprayed by icy mist from the fountain behind them. What are they looking at? Oh, Westminster. Bones is giving one of her speeches.
He only catches brief patches of the one-sided conversation. Something about the Lords, 1597, air raids, and a substantial reconstruction. He's pretty certain she's given him the Palace's entire life story with a little of good ol' Ben thrown in to spice it up.
He's about to make a snooty retort borne only from lack of sleep and incessant frustration when he turns his head and sees her.
Eyes lit with child-like animation, she excels in spinning this little yarn for him. The golden glow from the rising sun ignites the roses on her cheeks and the flecks of silver in her eyes. The reflection of light from the fountain makes the highlights dance throughout her curls. Her spirit is alive and youthful, lips moving a mile a minute in her excitement of sharing with him this country's history. Not to mention, what an adventure they've had for the past couple of days.
There is no headache to remember. She's so happy.
He sees this… and smiles.
Maybe he likes it here. Just a little.